


Just a Pique

by skb2n



Category: Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics)
Genre: M/M, POV Scrooge, sneaky sneaky unkie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24832858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skb2n/pseuds/skb2n
Summary: Scrooge obliterates the confusing image of his nephew behind jammed shut eyes. Distractions have no place in work or life.Although, stealing a glance every now and then at your subordinates never hurt anyone.
Relationships: Donald Duck/Scrooge McDuck
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72





	Just a Pique

**Author's Note:**

> [ From the CuriousCat prompt: "Scrooge forcing Donald to be his handy man. He says it's for the free labor, but really he just likes watching Donald roll up his sleeves, get all sweaty, bend down and lean over stuff." ... I've been craving a comic setting, as borked as the English localization/availability is...hope it's OK :') It's also an exercise in getting out a decent fic as quickly as possible, but I would like to do a more NSFW version sometime later :eyes: Title is a pun that I hope makes sense lol Enjoy! ]

* * *

“You’re late,” Scrooge gruffs at an approaching Donald from under the sanctity of Quackmore’s oversized umbrella. His nephew hobbles over in an uneven stride as lightning cracks the sky.

“Downed tree, blocked the driveway, had to run,” he pants as his feet slosh onto the Money Bin’s steps and his body stands defenseless against whipping rows of heavy rain. “But at least I’m only five minutes—”

“Five minutes and a day cut from your next paycheck!” Scrooge declares before ushering the other duck inside with a look that could take down every magnate in Calisota. 

Without needing to command it he knows his nephew, now his unacceptably late employee, is right behind him from the chill that runs up his neck in the current of the young one’s sigh.

“And what is that, a whole dollar?”

Not even halfway to the employee elevators, Scrooge whips around so abruptly that their beaks smash together like a highway pileup. Quackmore slinks past them to one of the mechanism's interiors and keeps the wet tip of his umbrella pressed firmly on “open.” It’s an almost routine occurrence.

“Keep it up and you’ll wish a dollar were your only troubles,” Scrooge warns as he pushes onto the balls of his feet to get a greater advantage over the other duck, ultimately deciding against it as the moisture from Donald’s beak sends him slipping off and relying on his cane for balance.

“Your threats are getting stale, Unk, you’ve gotta come up with better material,” Donald quips with a smirk and calm aura that raises his blood pressure just a bit too high for a Monday morning. 

“ _Hmph_.”

Scrooge adjusts his hat and turns on his heels for the elevator, dismayed when his tardy nephew hops in just before the closing doors can slice off a tail feather or two. Several droplets splay across the floor in the process, soaking through the old drake’s spats enough to make his foot audibly twitch against marble.

“I take it I’ll need to get him dried up before shift,” Quackmore affirms to Scrooge’s thoughts as he pings for the top floor office. 

“As much as I think he should stew in it to learn his lesson, I’d rather not have dirty water on my fresh coins,” Scrooge replies on the group’s way up, shifting a sideways glance to Donald who now quietly grumbles into his folded arms. 

“With all due respect, sir, why not just let _me_ take care of things for today? Or most any other day, for that matter.”

“You know why.”

Scrooge can sense Quackmore’s downturned gaze set upon him as the air shifts the higher they go. 

“Yes, of course. Silly me.”

He allows the dogged butler’s attitude just this once. Anything more and he might have to outright state his intentions, and that would be counter to his work policies. 

From the corners of his eyes he catches wind of his nephew feigning ignorance to their conversation, those dodgy eyes a little too obvious to go unnoticed, almost begging to be let in on their secret. But he can’t let a green young duck like Donald know that he’s one of his best employees in ways that can never be taught. The praise might get to his head and send him off to some other billionaire, or worse, a lowly millionaire, and he simply can’t have that. Some call it manipulative, but he calls it loss prevention, standard to any business.

Another chill dances up his spine as they reach the top, seemingly spreading to the rest of his company as everyone takes a brief moment to rub their arms. The air is considerably colder on the eleventh floor, especially with a storm over their heads. 

“Can’t wait to see how the rest of this day goes,” Donald sounds off when the doors open to a myriad of work laid out before him. 

Scrooge makes his exit first, sauntering around haphazardly placed stacks of miscellany and hopping into his sizable office chair. He watches as Quackmore hustles out of sight and returns to Donald with a towel in one hand and a folded top in the other.

“If you plan to follow in your morning footsteps then I can promise it’ll only get worse,” Scrooge chides while idly thumbing over a collection of papers and coins. “But if you do an even better job than your last, I may reconsider that pay cut.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Hold these, please,” Quackmore interrupts, standing abreast of Donald and forcing the dry attire into the other’s possession. He pats down soaked feathers in spite of the growing unrest beneath them.

“Hey– Cut it out– I can take care of it myself,” Donald objects with flailing arms before the towel is withdrawn to be held up like a partition. “How many times have I come here to work and you still treat me like this?”

Scrooge looks up from his desk to see Donald peeking out from behind the towel, his stark feathers on full display as a wet clump of fabric drops to the floor. He furrows his brow at the dripping mess rightfully being scooped up by his butler, ready to holler a scathing remark at the audacity of his nephew’s act, but the eruption in his throat pushes down as his eyes raise up. 

White plumes puff out in waves and carry his gaze higher, to one of the towel’s edges where a hand and arm flex. They captivate him enough to slow his ministrations and his mind. _Has the boy always been so fit?_ he panders to his traveling thoughts, ogling the way his nephew grabs at the hoisted towel and slips into his new suit with surprising finesse. He doesn’t keep his eyes set on one spot for too long, and he can’t, really, with how much Donald wriggles about in Quackmore’s nosy presence, but he finds it striking how sculpted for the job his underling has become. As much as he thinks the boy could lose some weight for someone his age, validated in an observation of duckling fat still sitting at the juncture of biceps and chest, at least Donald has grown into the Duck name. It’s more than he can say of his other nephews who are too young, too skinny, too plump, or too downright lazy to put their athleticism to use. And at such an affordable rate? No, not even Quackmore would suffice. Donald really is the only suitable candidate after all this time.

The boy is practically built just for him. 

“Anyway, Uncle—”

Scrooge drops a medallion in the midst of his musings, its tinny collision against oak sending aftershocks to his brain already startled by his nephew’s interruption. His hands scramble to catch it right before it falls off the edge of his desk where he finds Donald leaning forward with a peculiar energy in his hips and a fire in his eyes. He expects another snide comment, perhaps coupled with a gesture to match it, whatever his nephew’s new attitude may be that will finally let him release the grumble in his throat.

Instead, the young drake eases his expression into something more palatable once they make eye contact.

“—What’ve you got for me this time?” 

Donald’s tone is eager yet soft, subdued without submission, a far cry from his grating quacks mere seconds ago. The blues in his eyes come forward as the fire seems to recede, as if reserved for later; eyes so sure of what they see Scrooge wonders who is the subject and who is the seer. 

“Carat valuation,” he answers noncommittally, attempting to drown out the noise in his head.

“And more specifically?” 

Donald places both hands on his hips and arches his back in what Scrooge could only assume is offended grandeur. It manages to accentuate the curvature of his chest, something that should not even stand out, but there Scrooge is staring straight at it. 

He clears his throat and averts his eyes, telling himself that the fresh outfit clinging to Donald’s body only appears that way because of the boy’s puffed feathers—for warmth, of course. That’s why he looks so filled out. It has nothing to do with lean muscles. Nothing to do with handsome curves. Those kinds of thoughts are for scoundrels, the likes of his shameless enemies, not for Scrooge McDuck.

“Start with those gemstones you nearly stepped on,” he explains, nearly barking out the order in frustration and standing up in his chair to point his cane at a pile of bags. “I need them all separated by type. Then by size, grade, and color. _Then_ I need you to move them all downstairs for valuation. Should be an easy warmup.”

Donald lifts his foot over a mound of lumpy burlap, one of three stacked twice his height. “Alright.”

Scrooge is lured into annoyance at his nephew’s suddenly unenthusiastic commitment to the job, an emotional flame fanned by the ensuing joy of finally being able to release the scolding holler in his lungs now that the morning appears to be going back to normal. But just as he opens his beak, the urge is extinguished by the sight of Donald rolling up his sleeves and once more exposing his arms. Tired old eyes follow along tensed muscles and taut fabric as his nephew rearranges the bags one by one in surprisingly good form, bending at the knees and sticking out his lower back to center his balance. Even as Donald strains and grunts, he never once slouches his shoulders nor stops for a break, only offering his one hundred...no, one _thousand_ and ten percent effort. He looks determined, resolute. Firm. He looks…

_Resilient_. 

A forgotten heat forms in Scrooge’s belly.

_Resilient to what?_ he asks the intrusive thought. _Or rather..._

His vision tunnels around Donald’s familiar face now causing unfamiliar grief.

_...To whom?_

He obliterates the confusing image of his nephew behind jammed shut eyes. Distractions have no place in work or life. For Scrooge those are one in the same, and he seeks to make it doubly so. Time is money and every second counts. Donald is his money maker, not his gallery.

Although, stealing a glance every now and then at your subordinates never hurt anyone—

“Your usual this morning, sir?”

Scrooge jumps in his skin as Quackmore appears and occupies his entire line of sight, wondering when on Earth the man got there or if he’s too out of sorts to have noticed. He can only handle so many startles in one morning.

“Am I the richest duck in the world?” he rushes sarcastically, shoving his beak into a pile of budget reports. “And try to be faster than my tardy nephew.”

“Of course.”

As Quackmore makes his way to the upper kitchen, Scrooge offers a few necessary pointers to his amateur employee, all without removing his attention from his desk.

“Don’t forget to wear gloves.”

“Yes, Uncle Scrooge.”

“There should be a refractometer on the shelf over there.”

“Sure thing, Unk.”

“I want everything logged and recorded before you move them.”

“Will do.”

“No chatter on the job.”

“ _Mhm_.”

Rinse, repeat. 

Their exchange continues on with such repetitive fluidity that Scrooge hardly notices the time lapsed between them. As the last of his tea empties into his gullet, he lifts his head over the room to track progress, unfortunately narrowing in on Donald right as the duck looks over his shoulder. Their gazes meet before the boy breaks it with a wide, eyes-closed smile. It only adds to the pressure headache forming in the old drake’s skull.

Even if the view from his desk is more than incredible.

He groans deep in his throat and hurriedly resumes his work, attempting to turn off his brain from entertaining one more thought to his nephew. Only his hands will be allowed to take the reins—his wandering eyes be damned.

Whatever happens next, he reasons, he can't be faulted for.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Well, not bad, right?” Donald pipes up in between an effortful breath, wiping his hands of imaginary dirt and puffing out his chest with pride as late night clock tower bells mark the end of his shift. Scrooge finds it a ridiculous sight, though he supposes it’s all he can expect of his immature employee.

“It’s not perfect,” he grumbles as he scans the office, meeting startled eyes with Quackmore from across the room. The man looks away with a stiffened posture, acting as if he was caught in a heinous act, though Scrooge can’t fathom what could be worth such gawking.

“But…?”

Scrooge brings his line of sight and his cane back to face his nephew. “But nothing. The work is done. Do you want me to hand out some sort of participation trophy?”

He stands in wait for his nephew to leave, but all the young man does is shake his head, sigh, and take several steps forward. Toward him. The exact opposite direction of the elevators. He watches as Donald lowers his head with a half-lidded smile, his resolve indecipherable. 

“Y’know, Unk...” He pauses beside Scrooge, leaning in until their shoulders touch. Scrooge grips the handle of his cane tighter as their proximity reduces so much that he can feel the other’s breath hot on his whiskers. “If you forget about the pay cut and give me that raise I’ve been asking for instead, I might not tell everyone how much of a perv you are.”

Scrooge’s feathers blanch. _He was looking, too!?_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A puff of airy laughter ruffles his feathers. Literally.

“Subtlety isn’t one of your strong suits.” 

Donald tuts, reaching behind Scrooge to an unseen area and making his mind abuzz with obscene possibilities. He whips around, cane in hand like a weapon, but the other duck has already slid out of harm’s way. His eyes wildly trail his nephew’s withdrawing figure now holding onto a hefty stack of dollar bills, and the sight alone is so provocative he swears he can feel the ends of his feathers fraying from a spike in blood pressure.

“Didn’t you ever learn that it’s rude to stare?” Donald reminds rather than asks, sashaying to the other side of the room with a waggle of his tail feathers.

If Scrooge could throw up on command he would.

“Why you little—”

“I’ll keep these for now,” Donald interjects from inside the elevator, stuffing the paper money into his suit. “See you tomorrow, Uncle Scrooge!”

The visage of his nephew’s scrunched up beak and mocking hand-wave disappears behind closed doors, and then he’s gone. 

Scrooge stills, his beak agape while the world spins around him. At some point, sounding off so far in the distance despite being so close, Quackmore’s soft inclination brings him out of his beleaguered stupor. 

“Sir?”

With clenched jaw and vibrating eyes, he peers up at his butler who sports an equally puzzled expression. Even if he can’t blame the man’s state, the last thing he plans to do is explain the situation. Ever. To anyone. Not even his own reflection nor his shadow. He’d sooner have Gyro invent a way to auto-censor one’s own thoughts than come to terms with the past twelve hours.

“I’ll be in my private quarters.”

He starts for the spiral staircase near his desk with Quackmore following shortly behind like any other occasion. Several images of the day flash in his mind, all of his nephew with that accursed tight suit and even tighter body. Heat within rivals the cold surrounding him, making an inconvenient home in his chest and traveling lower the further his depraved path goes, practically begging for his attention. The air in his lungs empties completely, almost as painfully as the growing ache underneath his most private plumes, and it forces him to rebound quickly lest his secrets spill out as well.

“Alone,” he informs the other man with a stern raise of his hand, relieved when the order is fulfilled immediately. 

The trek to his quarters is agonizingly longer than usual, his own legs threatening to give out as discomfort spreads between them. With a single long breath he pushes through the large mahogany doors to his room and braces for the rest of the night, wishing on a star that the last of the day's storm will muffle whatever slips his beak.

He has his own business to take care of.

**Author's Note:**

> [ Leave a comment, kudos, and as always, thanks for reading <3 ]


End file.
